Catch your Breath
by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: Set after the events of "Welcome Home". John can't catch his breath. - Will be adding more chapters as they come to mind. I don't really know where this is going.


Breath. I need to catch my breath first.

John pressed his back to the wet wall and forced himself to take some deep, slow breaths. The air was just cold enough to be refreshing, just warm enough to not be freezing. But after having run down several streets, trying to keep up with his flatmate, John felt so hot from exertion, he was tempted to get rid of his jacket to cool down. He refrained from removing it, because he knew he'd have to carry it in his hands, and he needed those for other things.

Some branches of ivy concealed his form, as he cautiously looked around the corner of his hiding space. He was standing in front of a small park, surrounded by high brick walls and iron fences. With the abundance of plants creeping over the wall, it looked almost abandoned, but the inside was very well kept. John knew that because he had been there during the day.

Now it was night. It was raining lightly. All around him there was water dripping from the plants, slowly soaking through his clothes. He cursed quietly.

It was 3am. He was tired and had been running around the neighbourhood like a madman. Which made him even more tired. All because Sherlock had refused to call in additional help. Once again.

They had been on the track of a killer for the last days. Or so they assumed. There was never a complete corpse to be found - only body parts. Distributed throughout London in small parks and gardens. A hand here, an ear here. The parts didn't even all belong to the same person. And none were vital body parts, which could mean that the victims might still be alive.

John shuddered. Maybe they'd better be off dead, he thought. But he quickly scolded himself for the thought.

A few hours ago Sherlock had suddenly jumped up from his chair in 221b, muttered something about a pattern, and had left the flat before John had the chance to ask about… well, anything, really.

Some minutes later, he had received a text message with three addresses. Houses with big gardens, all in the same neighbourhood. Instructions to surveil those gardens during the night. Sherlock was looking after seven other places. Apparently his flatmate thought that the killer would appear at one of those.

John had hesitated. This was absurd. How could they keep an eye on everything? He had even texted Sherlock, asking him to call in police assistance. No reply. Before going out, John sent over the list of addresses to Lestrade. He was not going to let Sherlock run around alone, but he was also not stupid enough to think that they could cover everything themselves. Worst case, the police officers would hang out in the rain for a while. No harm done.

Now it was two hours later. Lestrade had mobilised some officers to cover the addresses Sherlock had come up with. But nothing was happening.

Until John had received a text from Sherlock with an address and an order.

_**Be there in under five minutes. The killer will be there. I'll get him with or without you. SH**_

While John cautiously looked around, his thoughts kept coming back to the message. He didn't try to find out how Sherlock could be so sure of the place. '_I'll get him with or without you.'_? Why did that sound like a challenge? Did Sherlock want to make him run faster? Because John was sure he would've tried to be at his friends side as quickly as possible, anyway. A warning? An insult?

John shook his head. No time now. Focus on the surroundings.

And no second too late. Hearing a strangled cry from behind the wall, he jumped out of his hiding spot to assist Sherlock in whatever he had caught himself up this time. But at first it didn't even look like he'd need any help.

The detective had apparently tackled the killer, knocking him over and now tried to keep him on the ground. But the other person was even taller than Sherlock and after a few moments, it was obvious that the other one started to gain the high ground.

John didn't hesitate, but threw himself at the killer as well. A few well placed movements later, he had both of the suspects arms behind his back, holding them in place with his hands. Sherlock slumped back and ended up sitting on the floor.

"Thank… you…," he coughed. It sounded like the other person had hit him in the throat during the fight.

John had both his hands full keeping the suspect from wriggling around. Even though he kept pressure on the twisted arms, the other man would not give up completely.

"Sherlock. Call Lestrade."

"Didn't... you…?"

"Yeah, I did. But I'd rather have this guy in custody sooner that later."

"Fuck you!" the killer cursed and spit on the ground, barely missing Sherlocks coat.

"Easy... easy," John said in a perfectly reasonable tone, but the pained grunts coming from the person in front of him suggested that the grip on his arms had just become even tighter. Even though John was much smaller than the other man, with just one skilled movement, he brought the suspect to his knees, suddenly giving off the feeling of being much bigger than his statue would suggest.

"Lestrade is on… cough… his way," Sherlock didn't even flinch at the killers attempt to spit at him and got back on his feet. "I texted him... after you."

John shrugged. He had expected something along these lines. But even after being used to Sherlock doing his own thing, it would sometimes be nice to get informed of the essential parts. Just sometimes. Once, even. That would be a start.

He started to say something, but was interrupted by a car screeching to a full stop in front of the park gate. Seconds later, Lestrade and Donovan ran towards the pair of the detective and his blogger.

"I got your message, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded.

"Is this...?"

"Yes, I believe… so…," Sherlock coughed some more.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade gave Sherlock a worried look, which the detective chose to ignore.

"Compared to his victims… I am completely… fine."

"Get this guy in for questioning," Lestrade barked at two additional officers, who had shown up at the scene. "For gods sake, hurry up."

John relinquished control of the suspect to the police officers, but not without twisting his arms one last time. The other man shot him a look that could kill and had his arms up as soon as John had let go, throwing a punch into the doctors direction. John was too surprised by the movement to dodge or counter. And so the fist hit him right in the face, barely missing his nose. The impact wasn't hard enough to make him fall over, but he swayed for a moment until finding his equilibrium again.

The next thing that happened was another impact, but this time someone flew to the ground. And this time a nose was definitely hit. Sherlock had reacted more quickly than anyone else on the scene, placing a well aimed punch in the suspects face. The force didn't only thrown him to the ground, but the two police officers, who were supposed to restrain the bad man, as well.

John quickly threw his arms around the detective and drew him back. But he was surprised to find that Sherlock didn't make any more attempt to go after the man who'd just punched his friend, but rather made a show of shaking his hands, as if he'd just touched something really gross and wanted to get rid of the remnants clinging to his gloves.

"I am going to join you at the questioning of this… individual," he said calmly, but Lestrade shook his head.

"I'm getting enough heat for this already. Mobilising half of our unit in the middle of the night based on a text message from someone I shouldn't be involved with, anyway," he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I believe you made a lasting impression on the lad already. This will be easy."

With a head motion, he instructed the officers to carry the suspect away, who was currently crying while holding his bloodied nose, which was not quite straight anymore.

"Pity. But I believe his victims are still alive, so you would do well to make it quick," Sherlock looked at the suspect, disappearing into the police car. "You sure I can't assist you?"

"Very."

"Let it go," John rubbed his left cheek where the impact had hit him. "I'm okay. He didn't hit anything important."

"He hit your face," Sherlock stated.

"Yeah, but missed the nose."

"He hit you."

"Your point being…?"

"You said he hit nothing important. But he hit you. You're important."

John was temporarily stumped and blinked at the detective, whose face didn't betray any emotion behind his words. Before the red, which he felt creeping up to his face, was visible, he placed a hand on his cheek and looked away. He hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice, but he knew that was a fools hope, at best. At least Lestrade was currently busying himself with shouting orders to Donovan and the others and didn't realise what was happening behind him.

"We'd better get home, then. It's too dark to have a look at my face here."

Sherlock nodded. After his gaze lingered on Johns cheek for a few more seconds, he turned around to leave the park with his usual quick step, coat blazing. John couldn't do anything but follow him.


End file.
